


This is How it Starts

by lily_winterwood



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, Public Transportation, Still messing with my concept of a modern Erebor don't mind me, The Hobbit Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:09:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accident on Id-ethak tram fourteen leads to something more. Modern Middle-earth AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is How it Starts

**Author's Note:**

> A couple notes on the Khuzdul: 1) it's pretty simple, yes, and is pretty much all scrounged from the Dwarrow Scholar with help from StrivingArtist. Thank you dearie.  
> 2) I am aware that calling it "the Id-ethak" is kinda redundant. Let's just say foreigners do that, all right? Yes, Erebor's public transit is called "the Mine Cart". Shh.
> 
> Thank you to [teaxdragon](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/145625577807/this-is-how-it-starts-by-evil-bones-mccoy), who illustrated for this fic!
> 
> And finally, thank you to plantyourtreesburntheheart @ Tumblr for beta-reading this!

This is how it starts.  

Each morning at seven thirty-five the Id-ethak arrives at Ironfoot Square, and Bilbo and Frodo Baggins would both clamber onboard. Usually at this hour there are just enough free seats for both of them to sit, and Frodo, as the inquisitive little bugger that he is, seems always determined to squirm and wriggle and turn around to press his face against the already-dirty tram window to gape at the buildings around them.

They’ve barely been in this city for a month. Bilbo had initially had his reservations when he had taken the post of teaching Common at the Mirrormere Academy, the finest private school in the Republic of Erebor. He’d just adopted his cousin Frodo, after all, and he couldn’t possibly uproot the lad from his life in Hobbiton and spirit him off halfway across the world simply for a fatter paycheck. But after some prodding and poking and urging from Gandalf, off they went, and Eru be voided if Frodo isn’t adjusting to the city better than him already.

Frodo’s of the age where secondary language acquisition doesn’t necessarily require too many primers, or teachers like Bilbo himself drilling in conjunctions and direct object pronouns. Just one month into being enrolled at a primary school in Erebor has got the lad babbling in a strange mix of both Common and Khuzdul. He’s a little prodigy, too, always with his Common-to-Khuzdul dictionary in his backpack, ready for him to take out whenever he encounters new words. There are some other Hobbits in his class — of course he’s in the one with all the other expat children — but they don’t necessarily hinder Frodo’s burgeoning grasp of the Dwarvish language. Bilbo has to admit, it makes him quite jealous at times.

Today Frodo is talking about his upcoming field trip to the zoo, about all of the animals they have been learning about in class, and Bilbo can only smile and nod in reply as he stares out the window, and most certainly not at the forehead of the handsome bearded stranger sitting diagonally from them.

This stranger has been getting on regularly one stop down from both of them. Every morning at seven thirty-seven, like clockwork, he would be at the Captain Fundin Embankment with his briefcase clutched in his hand (and later propped on his lap) and his coat collar popped. Sometimes, on colder days, he’d wear a sky blue scarf with silver threading. Bilbo thinks it brings out the blue in the stranger’s eyes.

The handsome Dwarf always seems to want to take a seat at the exact same location on the tram, no matter what the seating arrangement may look like that day. The trams of the Id-ethak vary depending on the time. Some of them are sleek, modern things with lovely state-of-the-art screens and minimalist wooden seats that Frodo loves to slide out of. Others are considerably much older and rounder, sporting hard plastic seats with tacky felt cushions and steps that make them unaccomodating for folks with wheelchairs and buggies. All of them have varied layouts; some have rows facing the front, others rows facing one another. Of course, his Dwarf gives up his seat to older Dwarves, but then he would stand in that same general spot until he can reclaim the seat once more. Bilbo has to admire his adherence to routine, when he isn’t busy admiring _other_ things about him.

One of the best things, in his own opinion, about the Id-ethak is the general silence. People don’t often make conversation on public transit here, _especially_ not with strangers. Unlike in Hobbiton, no one here begs on public transportation, choosing instead to take their business to the touristy parts of town. Most of the money can be found there, from tourists who come to Erebor for the splendid views and the absurdly cheap beer. Bilbo’s glad of this general silence — it means he can dedicate a portion of his morning commute to watching the stranger read the morning paper, and hastily look away whenever the stranger happens to glance towards him. Being caught staring is the last thing he wants.

The Dwarf doesn’t ride for as long as Bilbo and Frodo do; every morning he gets off at Durin Square, two stops before theirs, his paper folded neatly in one hand and his briefcase in the other. Bilbo always watches him go, and wonders how he gets back, because the tram doesn’t stop at the embankment on the way back.

Bilbo doesn’t want to admit that he purposefully gets on the same place as the stranger.  If the tram is older and the cars are detached, he’s always on the first car. If the tram is one of the new ones with no clear car divisions, he’s near the front. Seeing the stranger just makes his morning a little brighter, makes him a little more determined to get through the day because at the end of it, he and Frodo can go home, and the next morning he’ll see the stranger again.

The best — or worst, depending on his mood — mornings are those when there aren’t seats available for either of them, so the two of them have to grab onto the railings. Bilbo has to grasp the pole instead of the loops, which are just out of reach so that he’d have to stand on tiptoes if he wanted any chance of getting a good grip; the stranger holds onto a loop without a single issue, because of course Ereborean public transit isn’t made for small Hobbits like Bilbo Baggins.

This morning, Bilbo is clutching a to-go mug of cheap coffee bought from the corner coffeeshop that he had snatched just moments before his and Frodo’s tram had arrived. It is still too hot; he can feel the coffee burning through the cardboard onto his hand and every sip scorches his tongue. Even the taste isn’t exactly to his liking, but that’s what he gets for waking with just enough time to slap together two sandwiches for himself and Frodo for lunch before hustling the two of them out the door down to the stop.

The stranger boards the tram at his usual stop, notices that there’s no seats available, and merely grabs onto a loop near his usual seat. Next to him, Bilbo is clutching the pole with one hand and his scorching coffee with the other, while Frodo clutches onto Bilbo and keeps trying to reach the big green button that opens the doors at the stop.

Just after the Stonefoot Bridge stop there’s a wide swing as the tram turns left onto the bridge in question. This is usually one of Frodo’s favourite parts of the ride when he is standing up, because it makes him sway. Such turns are, of course, the main reason why older Dwarves are given priority for the seats. After all, if one of them collapsed due to rickety tram behaviour, then the entire tram would have to be stopped, and the driver would have to check on the fallen Dwarf, and maybe get them to a hospital, and the time spent doing all of that would make the rest of the passengers late to wherever they’re supposed to go. Either way, most mornings the wide turn isn’t an issue for Bilbo, but this particular commute seems to be very bumpy, and so when the turn happens, Bilbo lurches, and his coffee — black, with very little sugar and cream — goes flying everywhere. Most of it lands down the stranger’s front.

“Oh!” Bilbo exclaims, his ears heating up as the stranger tries to use his tie to wipe at the stain on his shirt. “I’m so sorry! I’ve got napkins in my bag somewhere, give me a minute —”

It doesn’t even occur to him to have tried to say any of that in Khuzdul. His brain is not in the mood for translation; besides, his Khuzdul isn’t much more advanced than Frodo’s, with the exception that he is able to order beer, which is infinitely more useful than knowing the Khuzdul word for ‘monkey’ anyway.

He fumbles through his satchel, looping one arm around the pole so that he won’t topple at the next turn. His coffee sloshes dangerously again, this time without spilling, and he is able to retrieve the napkins from his satchel with a great deal of huffing and puffing.

“Once again, I’m so sorry, I could buy you another shirt to replace it, or pay for its cleaning, or —” Bilbo’s babbling is stopped by a warm grip on his wrist, firm but not vice-like. He looks up, and the stranger’s eyes are just as warm, even mildly amused.

Bilbo realises then that he’d been touching this stranger’s chest for much longer than what is socially acceptable (that is, he shouldn’t be touching a stranger’s chest at _all_ ) and he takes a step back, pushing the napkins into the stranger’s hand and feeling his cheeks flare hotter than even before.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, as if that’ll help matters at all. The stranger chuckles, and dabs gingerly at his own shirt.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

“Really?” squeaks Bilbo, determinedly looking at the spot over the stranger’s shoulder and not into those very pretty blue eyes.

“Really. Don’t worry yourself about paying for cleaning,” says the stranger. His voice is low, a little gruff, but nonetheless gentle. And the accent! It was just Bilbo’s luck that the handsome stranger speaks Common with such an adorable Ereborean accent. His cheeks feel as if they’ve caught on fire; he wants to sink into the ground, or at least let the rest of the tram swallow him whole.

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be much of a problem —”

“If you are so determined to make it up to me for such a small accident, perhaps we could get lunch together sometime and call it even?” suggests the stranger, and Bilbo blinks at him. Once. Twice. The stranger’s mouth quirks in a semi-smile. “What do you think?”

“I —” Bilbo pauses, casts a glance at Frodo, who seems content to swing from the pole and is certainly not paying attention to either of them. He clears his throat, adjusts his coat, smiles. “That should be fine,” he manages, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as if he’s jumping at the opportunity.

The stranger’s smile grows a little more. “Perfect,” he says. “I suppose now I should ask for your name and your number?”

“It’s Bilbo,” says Bilbo, feeling his cheeks flare. “Bilbo Baggins.”

“Nice to meet you,” replies the stranger. “I’m Thorin Durinul.”

Bilbo nods, feeling his cheeks flare and his heart beat a little faster. “I can’t remember my Ereborean number off the top of my head,” he admits. “Perhaps you should give me yours?” he adds, accentuating it by pulling his mobile from his coat pocket and holding it out.

Thorin acquiesces, inputting his number into Bilbo’s mobile just as the tram arrives at the Durin Square stop. “I get off here,” he says, as he returns the mobile to Bilbo.

“I know,” says Bilbo, and then realises how that must sound. “I mean – I’ve seen you get off here often enough to assume that this is your stop –”

Thorin chuckles a little, and nods to Frodo as he makes his way out. The doors close moments after, and as they pull away from the stop, Frodo grins at Bilbo, smug and knowing.

Bilbo scowls half-mockingly at his nephew, which only seems to serve to make Frodo’s grin wider and even more insufferable.

* * *

A couple days pass before he gets a text from Thorin. In the interim, they seem to keep missing one another in the mornings – there are a couple where Thorin isn’t present at the embankment, and there are others when Frodo is too slow and they miss the tram and have to wait for a later one. These mornings give Bilbo no joy, of course, but he had sent the first text to confirm that he had Thorin’s number days ago, and it would just look strange to send more.

 _I haven’t seen you in the mornings much_. Thorin’s text arrives in the midst of an intensely dull lunch hour at the café down the street from Mirrormere. The food itself isn’t dull – it’s pretty good, actually, and reasonably affordable at lunch prices – but the atmosphere here at Café Nimrodel is always a little too serene for his liking.

The arrival of this text, however, brightens up lunch considerably.

 _I’m so sorry_ , Bilbo types back. _We missed the tram twice this week_.

 _I had a couple days off, which was why I didn’t show up twice as well_ , is the reply.

 _I figured_.

 _I rather miss seeing you in the morning, coffee and all_. Bilbo can’t resist grinning at that, and if his fingers are a little shakier when they type out their response, he tries to pretend it isn’t happening.

_Then perhaps you should take me out to lunch like you promised. Much better than a stolen glance on the 14 I think._

He tries to imagine Thorin’s expression when he sees that. Maybe he’ll be smiling. Or scowling. His default expression tended to veer more towards a scowl, anyway. Not that Bilbo ever paid attention, of course.

 _Fair enough_. There’s a winking emoji with it, and Bilbo stifles a laugh. Some of the other teachers who seem to frequent the café send him odd looks.

 _Do you have a place in mind?_ he asks.

_Not particularly. What would you like to eat?_

Bilbo purses his lips. _Bad question for a Hobbit. I like to eat everything_.

_Have you tried Ereborean food?_

_No_.  A pause. _Of course I have. I’m in the Republic of Erebor, after all_.

_Did you like it?_

_I’m not a big fan of bat sausages and pickled cheese._

_You’ve had pickled cheese?_ An open-mouthed emoji follows this. Bilbo stifles a chuckle, remembering the time at the pub where he had tried the pickled cheese, and how Frodo kept on wrinkling his nose and insisting Bilbo’s breath smelled terrible for days afterwards.

 _Yeah I had it at a pub_ , he types. _It took me days to get rid of the aftertaste_.

There’s a slight pause. _You must not have had the right kind_ , is Thorin’s reply, and Bilbo snorts, drawing a couple inquisitive stares.

_You’re seriously telling me there’s a RIGHT kind of pickled cheese._

_I was also informed that there’s supposed to be a RIGHT way to make toast with Kudumite but I think the Hobbit who told me about that was having me on._

Bilbo snorts again. _Excuse me, toast with Kudumite is DELICIOUS._

 _Clearly you are very brave for believing such a thing._ Bilbo laughs.

He then checks the clock. The lunch hour is drawing to a close, but he doesn’t want to leave the conversation hanging. So he types out a quick ‘ _I have to get back to work but call me in the evening and we can figure out where we want to go for lunch_ ’, pays his bill, and heads out.

This week is a week of parent-teacher conferences. The new semester is solidly underway now, so it’s a good time to give progress reports and discuss expectations with the parents. Bilbo has to admit, he’s not a fan of having to deal with defensive parents, especially the sort that could easily say terrible things in a different language to his face. Though, based on some of the first couple of conferences he’s had, he doesn’t need to deal with those sort of parents in Erebor nearly as often as he has had to in Hobbiton.

So after his last class is dismissed for the day, Bilbo sits back and prepares himself for the first conference of the afternoon. Moments later, the door opens, and the last person he expects to see walks through the door.

It’s Thorin. The Dwarf’s eyes widen at the sight of him, and he adjusts his tie almost uncomfortably as he approaches the desk. Bilbo swallows heavily, but for entirely different reasons.

“Hello,” says Thorin.

“I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you here,” remarks Bilbo.

“Nor I,” replies Thorin. There’s a small pause. “Kudumite, _really_?”

Bilbo laughs. “Can you blame me? I can’t seem to find it here in Erebor.”

“And for good reason, too,” declares Thorin, but he’s smiling. Bilbo gestures to the chairs in front of his desk, so Thorin sets down his briefcase on one and takes a seat at the other.

“So,” says Bilbo, once Thorin had settled himself. “You’re Fíli Vilinul’s father?”

“Uncle,” corrects Thorin, and Bilbo releases the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “I’m glad to leave the real fathering to my brother-in-law, thank you.”

Bilbo grins. “Well, you’re fortunate, then. The little boy who accompanies me on the tram each morning is my nephew Frodo, but I’m his guardian now, ever since his parents…” he trails off, but Thorin seems to understand why, and he nods sagely.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he says, and Bilbo smiles at that.

“It’s quite all right,” he replies. “Moving here has done Frodo well, I think. Change of scenery, fewer things to remind him of his parents and all.”

“That’s good.” The silence that stretches between them then is a little awkward, but mostly warm. Bilbo basks in it, content to drown in the startling blue of Thorin’s eyes, until the man coughs, bringing him back to reality.

Bilbo feels his cheeks flaring as he digs through his files. “Fíli’s progress report,” he announces, handing Thorin the relevant file. “Of course there’s not a lot to report beyond the first test and the first major assignment, but he seems to be doing well.”

“Fíli has always had a knack for the Common Tongue,” replies Thorin as he flips through the folder. “He picked it up when he was very young so that he could watch the Saturday morning cartoons from the kid’s channels in Dale.”

“Consider me impressed,” replies Bilbo. “I could have never done the same with Khuzdul, even when I was little.”

“Khuzdul-language television channels are quite hard to get in Hobbiton, I’m sure.”

Bilbo hums. “That, and the foreign language classes in most of Eriador are atrocious. Aside from Lindon, Imladris, and the Ered Luin, everyone in Eriador just assumes that everyone else in Middle-earth should speak Common and nothing else.”

“I’m sure your nephew will pick up Khuzdul very quickly here.” Thorin hands the folder back with a smile that seems almost barely there. “Immersion is a great way for both of you to learn, I think.”

“I hope so, too,” says Bilbo. “Do you have any questions about the progress report?”

Thorin looks thoughtful for a moment. It’s a good look on him, Bilbo thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. After a moment, the Dwarf speaks again: “Could I take a copy for my sister? I’m technically reporting to her.”

“She couldn’t make it herself?” asks Bilbo as he pulls up the report on the computer to print it again.

“Hearing,” explains Thorin. “Some dates got shuffled around at the last minute.”

“She’s a…” Bilbo trails off, brows furrowed. “Lawyer, right? I remember Fíli talking about it when we did introductions.”

Thorin nods. “One of the best, obviously. She often does guest lectures at the Durin University Law School.”

“And a mother of two, too!” Bilbo chuckles. “What a formidable woman.”

The report finishes printing, and Bilbo gathers the papers, staples them, and hands them over to Thorin. He slides them into his briefcase and nods at Bilbo in thanks.

“Anything else I can do?” asks Bilbo, feeling his cheeks flare a bit. Thorin smiles, and Bilbo is suddenly very glad he is seated, because he’s not sure if his knees exist anymore.

“Besides take my call later tonight about lunch? Not that I’m aware of,” replies Thorin.

Bilbo swallows. “Then I’ll see you later.”

“Indeed,” agrees Thorin.

“Shamukh,” adds Bilbo, his tongue stumbling over the Khuzdul. He feels like a downright fool, but Thorin seems to understand, and his blue eyes twinkle a little more warmly at it.

And then off he goes, all tall and dark and gorgeous, and Bilbo is left in a too-empty classroom, feeling euphorically overwhelmed as he listens to the sound of the Dwarf’s footsteps receding in the hallway.

He is entirely far too impatient for the call, but the scarier part is that he doesn’t care.

* * *

After dinner, Bilbo’s mobile rings, and he almost drops the plate he’s taking to the sink in order to answer it.

Frodo’s sprawled out in the living room next door, finishing up his homework. Today had been the long-expected trip to the Erebor Zoo, and so Frodo is still a little dusty from the day’s excursions, not to mention very chatty about all of the animals he had seen. Bilbo can hear him saying the Khuzdul and Common words of various animals all the way in the kitchen, and it brings a little smile to his face.

“How about Gondorian food?” is the first thing out of Thorin’s mouth when Bilbo picks up.

“Gondorian food?” echoes Bilbo.

“There is a very good Gondorian restaurant on Durin Square. We took Fee there for his birthday once. The seafood is excellent.”

“Sounds tempting,” murmurs Bilbo. “But aren’t the restaurants on Durin Square very expensive?”

“It’s practically extortion,” says Thorin, with no small amount of grouchiness in his voice. “It’s all the damn tourists. We locals try to pinch a little extra off them because they have no idea how to gauge the priciness of the restaurants here.”

Bilbo thinks back to the one guidebook he had consulted the first night he and Frodo had been in Erebor. “I was informed that it was based off the beer.”

“And you’d be right,” replies Thorin. “Though I have also found that the restaurants that do not offer meus in Common also tend to offer better quality food.”

Bilbo can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Terrific,” he deadpans, earning himself a chuckle from the other end.

“How long have you been here?” Thorin asks after a moment.  

“About a month,” replies Bilbo. “Which is absolutely no time for me to learn a decent amount of Khuzdul. So unless you’re willing to translate the entire menu for me, please don’t take me to a restaurant where they don’t speak Common.”

There’s an amused huff that comes out a bit staticky. “What a shame,” deadpans Thorin, causing Bilbo to laugh a little himself. “What’s the point of living here if you’re not willing to try foods that you cannot name?”

Bilbo snorts. “I’ll have you know I almost didn’t take this job at Mirrormere because it would entail living in a country where the official language wasn’t Common.”

A chuckle from the other end. “We have plenty of signs and speakers in Common. That’s why it’s called the _Common Tongue_ , anyway.”

“Right, but a month is still not enough for me to become anything even nearly approaching fluent in Khuzdul, either,” replies Bilbo. “And believe me, I’m trying my hardest. The other day I went to drop some clothes off at the dry cleaners and they spoke not a single word in Common to me the entire time. I almost paid them four times the amount they required because of it.”

He can almost hear the inquisitive eyebrow raise on the other end. “How did you manage to do that?”

“I thought each piece of clothing was a hundred and sixty kalâm, not all of them together.”

There’s a snort, which frankly offends him a little, but he’s pretty sure (and hopeful) that Thorin meant no offense by finding the entire situation a little laughable. “I’m surprised they didn’t give up and just make you pay a small fortune to get your clothes dry cleaned.”

“I wouldn’t have been too surprised, really, dry-cleaning in Hobbiton usually costs about that much.”

“Atrocious,” declares Thorin. “And as enlightening as all of this is, it still doesn’t tell me where you’d like to go for lunch.”

“I know a good Karningulian place.”

“I am _not_ eating Elvish food.” The disdain in Thorin’s voice is shockingly clear. Bilbo had reckoned there was little love lost between Elves and Dwarves, but he had not anticipated a disinclination towards Elvish cuisine, too – but then again, he personally adored Elvish dumplings.

“I don’t think most Dwarves know how to _prepare_ Elvish food,” he muses. “Karningulian food here always seems to be mixed up with Lindonese food.”

“They’re all run by Lasgalenese Elves anyway,” says Thorin, still barely containing his disdain. “We have a very high population of expatriates from Eryn Lasgalen here and they run most of the Elvish food places.”

“So you don’t want Elvish food, and neither of us want to spend too much money.” Bilbo hums, as in the next room he hears Frodo yell that he was finished with his homework and that he would be watching telly. “I’m not really picky, honestly. I just love food. Even going to a nice café would do the trick.”

“Then I know just the place.” A pause. “What time?”

“Lunchtime?”

“Well, obviously –” there’s a huff of laughter on the other end – “but what day of the week best suits you?”

“I’m free on the weekends.”

“I unfortunately have a lot of things to do then, but I could move things around to free up Saturday, if you’re amenable.”

“That sounds excellent,” breathes Bilbo.

A pause. “I’ll let you know the reservation details by the end of the day, then,” says Thorin.

Bilbo nods. “Perfect.”

For a moment a comfortable silence hangs between them. Bilbo doesn’t want to hang up, doesn’t want to disconnect from the sound of Thorin’s breathing, deep and thoughtful, on the other end. There’s an amused huff, then, and Bilbo’s traitorous heart flutters at the sound.

When he speaks up again, his voice is hoarser than it should be. “Well,” he says, the words sounding awkward in the wake of the blissful silence. “I’ll see you on the fourteen tomorrow, then.”

“And at lunch on Saturday,” adds Thorin.

“Yes, at lunch,” agrees Bilbo. “Saturday, you said?”

“Twelve-fifteen,” says Thorin.

“I’ll be there.” Bilbo smiles. “Zann galikh.”

“See, you’re pretty good at Khuzdul already,” says Thorin, causing a strange and unexpected rush of laughter from Bilbo that most certainly had nothing to do with how unexpectedly fast his heart started beating at this moment. “Zann galikh.”

And with the click, Bilbo sets down his mobile, takes the plate to the sink, and joins Frodo in the living room where the telly is blaring some Khuzdul cartoon about a little mole.

* * *

The lunch reservation is for the Carrock Café, a homey establishment in the hip new part of Erebor. Most of the older parts of the city, such as the King’s Square with its famous clock tower, had been built into the side of the Lonely Mountain itself. Most of the governmental buildings, upscale shops, embassies, and luxury residences lie on roads leading off King’s Square into the heart of the Mountain, though the main and the largest road leading off the square curves around the Mountain to the buildings of the old Royal Palace complex.

But the newer parts of the city lie across the River Running, connected to the old city through numerous bridges. Durin Bridge, the most famous of these bridges, connects Durin Square to King’s Square, and boasts numerous statues from Ereborean history along its parapet.

The Carrock Café lies a couple streets off Durin Square, but within the sprawling maze of shops and bars and restaurants that eventually lead to the embankment before Dwarrowdelf Bridge, a slender suspension bridge that looks absurdly modern compared to the older styles (like Durin Bridge) closer to the touristy parts of town. Not that the area around Dwarrowdelf Bridge isn’t touristy — it _is_ , in its own way, but it’s also more _hip_ , more appealing to the younger generation, if the sheer number of bars and clubs and hostels in this area are of any indication.

The Carrock Café fits the aesthetic of the new generation. It’s all exposed beams and stone floors and wooden tables and chairs, all sleek typography and minimalist place settings and craft beer. There’s a big black dog that prowls the place, and the owner himself bears a strong resemblance to said dog as well, with shaggy black hair, a jovial face, and evidently a wardrobe that consists of nothing but flannel.

Said owner greets Bilbo at twelve-fifteen when he arrives for the reservation, escorting him to a nice cosy booth near the window where he can look out at the street. Thorin is not here yet – probably running late – so Bilbo takes a menu and peruses it, settling on a cup of Haradrim coffee to start with.

The coffee arrives almost too soon for his liking. Bilbo takes a sip from the small cup, savouring the taste of bittersweet chocolate. He then busies himself with reading the menu, if only to pretend he isn’t desperately looking out the window every other minute for a sign of Thorin on the street outside.

It’s a beautiful Saturday day outside. The sky is an endless stretch of blue, Frodo is being watched by his neighbour Bofur, and Bilbo is glad that he’s having lunch in the new city because, as charming as the architecture of the old city is, today is just not a day for skulking in an underground café. However, as lovely as the day is, it is still marred somewhat by the rather pointed absence of a certain handsome Dwarf at the place across from him.

The server comes back to take his food order, but Bilbo waves him off, running his fingers along the rim of the cup as he watches the street outside. Every tall, dark figure walking down towards the café looks like Thorin for a brief moment before they get closer and they _aren’t_.

He checks his messages as well, sends an ‘ _I’m at the café where are you_ ’, and then returns to looking out the window.

Thorin must be busy with something, he rationalises, after a glance at the clock says twelve-thirty. Something happened last minute and he got caught up in it. Something that makes him unable to check his mobile. _Whatever it is, after thirty more minutes if he’s not here, I’m leaving_.

And as those minutes count down, the doubts and worries resurface in Bilbo’s head, strange, nagging suspicions that maybe all of this had been for a laugh, or maybe Thorin’s really in trouble and he has no way of ascertaining. He keeps a careful watch between the clock and the window, and barely notices when his now-empty cup is taken away.

Just at the last minute, just before the clock hits one, the door to the café opens and Thorin steps in, and Bilbo almost collapses from relief at the sight of the Dwarf taking his seat.

“Sorry I’m late,” offers Thorin.

“You could have texted,” says Bilbo, overwhelmed more by relief than by annoyance.

“Some clients insisted on meeting me this morning, and then my phone died on the way over here.” Thorin reaches over, takes Bilbo’s hand, and Bilbo is quite certain he’s forgotten how to breathe. “Did you find yourself waiting for too long?”

“I was here on time.” That sounded a lot less petulant in his head. “I mean, it wasn’t too long, I had _plenty_ of distractions, but –”

“Oh Mahal. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. You must have been really anxious.” Thorin squeezes Bilbo’s hand. “I’ll buy lunch, all right? Let me make it up to you.”

Bilbo nods, numb with relief and happiness and so many other feelings at once, and when the server comes by again, he gets one of the honey cakes at Thorin’s suggestion.

* * *

“How much of the city have you seen?” Thorin asks, after their plates are cleared away. After the first honey cake had turned out to be an excellent decision, Bilbo had promptly ordered two more and never looked back.

He’s sure he’ll regret it sometime later down the line (much later), but for now, he’s too satisfied to care.

“Most of the popular places,” he replies as he finishes the dredges of his lemonade and dabs at his mouth. “I’ve been along Durin Bridge, of course, and I took Frodo around the Royal Palace and its gardens, though there isn’t anything growing there this time of the year.”

“It’s surprisingly lovely in spring, given that two-thirds of it is underground,” agrees Thorin. “There’s a very complex system of skylights that light up the old city during the day.”

“Really?”

Thorin nods. “I’ve studied those skylights for most of my life, and I’m still not sure how they manage to get just enough sunlight into the Mountain to make the gardens bloom.”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Was that at university?” he asks. Thorin nods again. “Was it some sort of history thing?”

“No, architecture,” admits Thorin. “I have my own firm near Durin Square.” A pause. “Well, it’s the family firm, considering it once belonged to my father and my grandfather, but they’re both quite retired now.”

An idea pops into Bilbo’s head at that. “Could you show me any of the buildings that your firm’s designed?” he asks.

And of course that question leads to something more, something wonderful.

They ask for the bill – Thorin pays – and then Bilbo finds himself being swept out into the street with Thorin walking briskly ahead. He has to jog a little to catch up, as the Dwarf’s strides are longer than his own.

To Bilbo’s great surprise, quite a number of the more visually interesting buildings in Erebor have been designed by Thorin or his family. The contemporary theatre building of the National Theatre, for example, had been designed by Thorin’s father. The imposing, almost monolithic monument to the ‘victims of the Desolation’ in one of the parks neighbouring Dwarrowdelf Bridge had been designed by Thorin’s grandfather. And the refurbished steel-and-glass exterior of one of the big department stores on Durin Square had been designed by Thorin himself.

Of course, not everything covered in the walk is some sort of past Durin family architecture project. Thorin also points out some of the old buildings in the new city – the National Theatre itself, the headquarters of the Ereborean police at Ravenhill, the national post office, the National History Museum and the old watchtower in Durin Square. They even climb up the numerous – too many, in Bilbo’s opinion – stairs to the observation deck at the top of the watchtower, where the wind blows Thorin’s scarf wildly around him and the people coming and going in the square below seem unbelievably small, almost ant-like.

“You can even see Dale from here,” says Thorin, gesturing towards the River Running, where the distant blue-hazed spires of another city can be seen in the distance. “The view is much better from the Mountain, of course, but this tower was originally intended as a lookout post towards Dale anyway. In any case, most buildings in Erebor here don’t really obstruct the view, especially at night.”

“I _have_ noticed there aren’t that many skyscrapers,” remarks Bilbo. None of the buildings immediately nearby seem to be as tall as the tower, which of course meant this observation deck had an unparalleled view of the comings and goings in Durin Square – and the long promenade from the base of the watchtower to the National History Museum – below. He could even see a small crowd gathering at the base of the statue of Durin in the centre of the promenade.

“Dwarves dislike being up so high.” Thorin’s voice suddenly cuts through Bilbo’s thoughts. “The summit of a Mountain is one thing, as the solid ground below is familiar to us. Anything past the tenth floor of a building, even if it _was_ made by Dwarvish hands, feels far too precarious.”

“So all of the super-tall buildings here aren’t inhabited by Dwarves?”

Thorin snorts. “Usually they belong to Elvish companies,” he replies, with no small amount of sourness in his voice, as if the Elves as a whole were solely responsible for soiling the Ereborean skyline. It’s a little odd, this attitude, but Hobbits and Elves don’t share the same sort of history as Dwarves and Elves, so it really isn’t his place to pry into Thorin’s seeming distaste for all things Elvish.

So he says nothing, only looks out towards Dale and the vast blueness of the Long Lake. The air up here may be biting cold, but Thorin’s presence is a reassuring warmth by his side. And the view is breathtaking.

It’s only after a cursory glance at his phone that Bilbo realises that it’s nearing five-thirty, and that he really should be heading back and getting dinner ready for Frodo. The sun is already starting to make its descent, dying the afternoon sky a myriad of colours. In this light, Erebor looks positively magnificent with every stone in the city seemingly bathed in gold.

“Sometimes I forget how beautiful this city is,” says Thorin, saying Bilbo’s thoughts aloud perfectly as the light hits the battlements of the old Royal Palace, and the magnificent carvings in the Mountain are brought out into glorious relief.

“I’m glad this reminded you of it,” replies Bilbo. Thorin chuckles, and offers his hand, and together they descend the stairs of the old watchtower back to Durin Square.

The tram ride home in the winter twilight is silent, as Ereborean public transit is, but the silence between Bilbo and Thorin feels just a little more awkward than it usually is, as if there are so many things left unsaid between them that they cannot seem to voice. Thorin’s hand is warm against Bilbo’s, his expression more serene than sullen, and if Bilbo let his head fall onto Thorin’s shoulder when the tram makes that wide turn onto Stonefoot Bridge, neither of them say anything about it.

But finally the tram reaches Ironfoot Square, having no stop at the embankment on the way back, and the two of them disembark in the gathering twilight. The streetlamps flicker to life and Bilbo looks up at these buildings at the foot of the Mountain, still overwhelmingly tall for him even though he knows now that none of them ever exceed ten stories.

In the distance he hears the rumble of a train entering the Mountain, and he smiles just a little.

“I suppose I shall see you on the fourteen, then,” says Thorin, his fingers slipping from Bilbo’s, and Bilbo can’t help but think he feels much emptier for it.

“I hope so,” he says, with a smile. Another tram pulls up, another leaves. Ironfoot Square is a busy thoroughfare, a pulse point for the heartbeat of the city. Thorin leans in, his lips brushing against Bilbo’s cheek for a brief moment, and Bilbo’s own heartbeat thuds a little louder in his ears.

“Shamukh,” says Thorin, and then he is gone, disappeared into the crowd across the street. There is still warmth where his lips had met Bilbo’s cheek, a warmth that is almost a promise, almost a temptation.

Bilbo gingerly touches this spot again, and smiles.  

* * *

At first glance it’s as if nothing has changed. The sun still rises, Id-ethak tram fourteen still arrives at Ironfoot Square at seven thirty-five in the morning, and Frodo still looks out the window wide-eyed as the tram whizzes around the Mountain on its route to the other end of the city.

And, of course, Thorin Durinul still gets on the first car of the tram at Captain Fundin Embankment and stands at the exact same spot where he usually is. But even if it seems as if nothing has changed, for Bilbo personally it feels as if everything has. Thorin Durinul smiles at him from across the aisle, blue eyes twinkling, and Bilbo narrowly avoids dropping his coffee in response, his face flaring hotter than a hearth during Yuletide.

His phone pings. _Bakn galikh_ , the message reads, and Bilbo looks up to see Thorin still looking intently at him, still grinning.

 _I thought we were allowed to talk on the tram now that we’re acquainted_ , he replies.

 _Isn’t this more amusing, though?_ Bilbo looks up, eyebrows raised, just in time to catch Thorin’s wink. His cheeks flare harder.

 _Maybe I should just throw my coffee all over you again_.

He can hear a stifled chuckle from across the aisle. _Then I shall have to take you out to dinner_ , is the reply, and Bilbo has to hide a grin himself at that.

 _In that case you better watch out for your shirt_ , he replies. Across the tram, Thorin grins at him.

_Maybe we can cut the coffee throwing part then and go directly to dinner._

_That sounds like an excellent plan. Where were you thinking?_

Thorin moves to answer, but then the tram announces their arrival at Durin Square, and the doors open. “I’ll call you about it,” he tells Bilbo on his way out, and it takes Bilbo until the next stop to really wipe that smile off his face.

“Are you okay, Uncle Bilbo?” asks Frodo as the tram moves on, through Durin Square, and past the embankment just next to Durin Bridge. “You look a little funny.”

Bilbo laughs. “I’m more than fine, Frodo, really,” he says. The tram stops at the National Theatre, with its gleaming golden dome. Across the River Running the Royal Palace gleams in the early morning light, and below on the water the swans gather like a cloud of white against dark waters.

“That’s good,” says Frodo, and takes Bilbo’s hand, dangling a little from the railing as he does so.

The tram speeds on. It stops at Dwarrowdelf Bridge and Republic Square, and finally, _finally_ , it alights at their stop, Mirrormere Academy. Bilbo and Frodo get off here, along with some others. They’ve barely made it across the street onto the pavement before Frodo takes off, waving at some friends of his, yelling in a strange mish-mash of Khuzdul and Common.

Bilbo smiles. To the side he sees Fíli Vilinul taking leave of a tall, dark Dwarf-woman that is quite undoubtedly Thorin’s lawyer sister. Fíli notices him, grins a little, and waves. Bilbo waves back.

And with a deep breath, he turns to face the imposing façade of Mirrormere Academy, and he heads in.

This is where it starts.  

  



End file.
